


The Pull of Strings

by StarlightSylph



Category: Guild Wars
Genre: Creepy Mordrem Shenanigans, Fao would really like to be anywhere but here honestly, Gen, Heart of Thorns, Mordremoth (or at least its voice), Sylvari just aren't having a good time right now, Team Hot Salad, the dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightSylph/pseuds/StarlightSylph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Heart of Maguuma is a terrible place for sylvari; for Mordremoth is wont to corrupt its rebellious, would-be minions and a dreaming mind is so vulnerable...</p><p>-</p><p>"Keep moving. Mordremoth's done too much damage already. I don't want you around when it starts pulling your strings."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pull of Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing particularly spoiler-y for Heart of Thorns, beyond minor mention of an early Act 1 situation or two.

The worst part of being so close to the source of Mordremoth’s influence was the dreams.

 

On the rare nights it was safe enough to rest and she was able to sleep deeply enough, Faohren would stir from her rest and find her mind in the Dream, or something that resembled it. So many of the familiar sensations were there; the gentle murmur of other sylvari minds like a quiet brook in the distance, the soft sensation of grass and blossoms brushing against her ankles in the dream-wind, and an atmosphere of calm and _home_ wrapping itself around her waking psyche. But something about it seemed… _off_ , somehow. The other minds were colder and seemed to view her with pity, the grass and brush clung to her heels, and the calm felt false, cloying and all too desirous of holding her mind in its grasp.

 

There was no kind voice of the Pale Tree to guide her here, nor was Ventari’s gentle droning tenets. There was only a deep, dark whispering voice, uttering words so softly that she could not hear them truly. Closing her eyes, Faohren steeled herself for whatever was to come next. Dark whispers would not stay whispers long here, no matter what she might wish.

 

She wandered farther into the not-Dream, if only out of habit. The sky was a sleepy twilight, vibrant orange and gold painting the canopy above her like a swaying canvas. The sense of wrong grew as she continued, anxiety beginning to wrap around her chest like tiny vines, clinging and festering. The deep droning voice continued, then seemed to pause for a moment. She stiffened. A pause was almost worse than cacophony, and silence began to fall in the false Dream.

 

“You have been so brave, little one. The Pale Mother must be so proud of you for fighting so long and hard for her.” A gentle, feminine voice said from behind her. Faohren whipped around in alarm, only to find a cliff where a forest path had been. Soft hands placed themselves on her arms, gentle and supportive.

 

“When all those soldiers fell from the sky, doomed and destined to become fodder, you could have run. No one would have blamed you for staying away. Or, no one worth caring about. But despite your fear, you dove into the jungle to save them. Despite knowing they would likely be dead by the time you reached them.” The voice continued, sweet and warm. Faohren stayed frozen in place as the soft, thin hands rubbed her arms in gentle, reassuring circles.

 

“And what have you been greeted with by those you've saved? Nothing but anger and suspicion by the other races, and tales of horror from your fellows. They would rather see you dead than trust in the strength of your noble heart. They would rather _charge into their own deaths than believe in you_. That Priory charr, that Vigil human, they had such rage in their hearts. You saw their eyes, they had nothing but hatred for you.”

 

Despite herself, Faohren bowed her head slightly, remembering Metella’s cold, scornful stare. The charr had absolutely _hated her. How many sylvari must she had killed before you arrived? If she had encountered you alone, how soon would she have tried to kill you—_

 

“No! Those aren't my thoughts!!” She cried out, covering her ears with clenched hands. The hands on her arms tightened their grip, pulling her closer and shushing her softly.

 

“Now now, sweet sapling. Fear does not suit your noble heart, and those fool Pact soldiers could never match you. Nothing will hurt you here.” The voice chided, like an amused parent.

 

On the verge of panic–even here, she's _not free of the dragon’s voice_ – Faohren ripped herself away from the voice and ran, deeper into the forest of the Dream-but-false. She had to wake up, she couldn't stay here where there were too many voices in her head.

 

As she fled, she could hear the soft creaking of vines winding behind her, blocking the route behind her. Dodging around trees and over streams, Faohren ran until her legs, burning and aching, gave out from under her and sent her sprawling, panting for breath against the roots of a large tree. Reaching inside herself for her magic, she shielded herself in a thick layer of ice, letting her fear and dread power her spell.

 

Faohren pulled her legs against herself tightly and leaned her face on her knees, putting all her will into blocking out the voice in her head. She desperately wished Arkay was here with her. The tall norn would know what to do, besides cower. Alone as she was, she _could never stand alone against the power of an Elder Dragon, even in her own mind._ Everything in her was telling her to fight, or do something, anything, but she felt the hands on her shoulders again, the presence leaning against her back like some kind of sick comfort, and could not bring herself to struggle.

 

“Even now, here where it is strongest, you fight against our father, like some kind of desperate, Valiant hero searching for her place.” The voice crooned, stroking the dark leaves of Faohren’s hair. “But can't you see it, dear blossom? Your place isn't with the soldiers who despise and fear you, or in a Pact that fell apart at the might of the jungle dragon. It's here, in the true home of all sylvari. Safe, in the embrace of the jungle.”

 

Faohren trembled, eyes clenched shut and hands gripping her ears in an attempt to block out the voices. Her _attempts were futile,_ she knew, but she had to try.

 

“I. Am. Not. Your. Slave!” She hissed, trying to shove off the hands, eyes snapping open angrily. But what had been hands became Mordrem vines, twisting around her arms and pulling her backwards. She tried to rip the tendrils off, but more replaced them, shattering the icy shell she had hidden in and dragging her to the base of the tree.

 

“If you would stop struggling against the inevitable, you wouldn't hurt as much as you do. None of us want to hurt you, little sister. We want you _with us_ , not against us.” The sweet voice returned. The hands cupped her jaw, lifting Faohren's head to look her in the eye.

 

She shrieked, and struggled against the grip of the vines, panic overtaking her limbs. Familiar eyes bore into her mind, but blood red where teal should be. The face was intimately familiar yet deeply wrong, segmented in all the ways a face shouldn't be. The form was twig thin and strangely angular, but she could recognize her own body instinctually. The twisted doppelgänger moved her segmented mouth in a manner that suggested a gentle smile, but the corners of her lips pulled in all the wrong ways, revealing pointed, thorny teeth.

 

“Y-you're not real! You're not me; let _go_ of me!” Faohren demanded, trying to forcefully pull her face out of the grip of those spindly fingers. Her Mordrem-self laughed quietly, her lips pulling further back.

 

“I _am real_ , more real than this false persona of yours, little flower. A pleasing personality pressed on you by a dead centaur’s words and a mother’s stifling expectations? That is _not what you were meant to be. You were meant to be overwhelming, a singular force, as all your kind is meant.”_ She said, her voice two toned and splintered.

 

“I will never, never be you! I won't fall, I _can't._ Please, I _can't.”_ Faohren whimpered and wilted, feeling the thorny fingers dig into her flesh and pull sappy blood.

 

“Oh, my dear, you _will_. And we will paint the jungle with the blood of those who hurt _us._ You just have to **_let me in_**.”

 

Mordremoth's voice pounded in her mind, like a hurricane. It was too much, she _couldn't keep it ou–_

 

* * *

 

Faohren awoke in a tangle of sheets, bolting upwards and crashing forward, scrambling towards some underbrush on instinct. Breathing heavily, her eyes darted around, clutching her staff to her chest.

 

She could still hear its voice in her head, but fainter, less focused on her. Other, more real voices were asserting themselves. A charr, grumbling about rations, a norn muttering to her comrade about sylvari, the gentle murmur of an awakening camp. She felt a few eyes watching her, confused and suspicious. They were always suspicious.

 

She wanted to cry. Were these thoughts even hers? How far from becoming that horrific version of herself was she? Why did the pact survivors have to look at her like some kind of _monster_ , she hadn't even been on the airships! She was just trying to _help_.

 

Faohren stood up stiffly, and gripping her staff hard enough for her knuckles to pale, walked away from the camp after gathering her things. Better to leave now and fight alone for a while. It would at least be slightly better than wallowing in fear and dwelling on her dream, anyway.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit out of practice with this whole writing thing, but my love of all the potentially creepy things that Mordremoth could do to the minds of sylvari to bring them into its fold left me only one option: to try and stretch those authorly muscles I vaguely remember having. Hopefully it was an enjoyable read! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. <3


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